


Fauntlery

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Apologies, Bilbo thinks Thorn is hella sexy on a plate with sauce, Cultural Differences, Don't mess with Dis, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf/Hobbit Relationship(s), Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Dwarven Politics, Dwarven Traditions, Fell Winter (mentioned), Gandalf shows up like the Doctor, Hobbit Children, Hobbit Courting, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Marriage Contracts, Politics, The Wedding Under the Mountain, Thilbo, Unconventional courtship, Whump, bagginshield, exactly when you need him but not always when you want him, not really smut, otp, respectability, shire - Freeform, such a cute couple, sweet cinnamon, the stubborness of dwarves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drafting a contract is a gravely serious task in Dwarrow culture; a contract concerning courtship, betrothal, and marriage even more so. Bilbo, the formerly respectable Hobbit of Bag End, was no stranger to the business of contracts, although he seemed to have underestimated the vigor with which the scribes of Erebor took to their task. Despite Dwarven confusion, there are some things a Hobbit simply requires, even if that Hobbit will live in Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marriage Contracts

Drafting a contract is a gravely serious task in Dwarrow culture; a contract concerning courtship, betrothal, and marriage even more so. Bilbo, the formerly respectable Hobbit of Bag End, was no stranger to the business of contracts, although he seemed to have underestimated the vigor with which the scribes of Erebor took to their task. The scribe addressing Bilbo was ancient. He appeared to be older than Gandalf; the dwarf was a shriveled raisin of his former grape glory. "Now, Your Highness," this new moniker had been awarded to Bilbo upon his acceptance of Thorin's courtship offer, "what manner of accommodations and accoutrements will you be requiring to make your home here in the heart of Erebor?"  
"Requiring?" Bilbo spluttered.  
Bilbo's reply was hastily aborted when Balin cleared his throat. "Of course, Your Highness," Bilbo's friend interjected with a wry grin. "We know you left behind the home your father built as a wedding present to your mother to help us restore Erebor to your betrothed from the clutches of the calamitous Smaug." Balin paused to allow for the grumblings and cursing which inevitably echoed the name of the dragon. "And, in choosing to wed our heroic King Thorin, called Oakenshield," here Balin spread one arm magnanimously towards said King seated across the table from Bilbo, "you have accepted his home as your own. However, our king wishes his consort to feel completely at home here. As your Hobbitish nature compliments that his beautifully, we hope to shape our beloved Erebor into a home as dear to your heart as your own Bag End."  
Bilbo nodded his understanding and gestured for Balin to continue. "I certainly remember the warmth of your smial when we enlisted your aid in our quest over a year ago. What things are necessary in a home that houses a Hobbit? This is, perhaps, what we are truly asking you, Your Highness.”  
“Ah, I see,” Bilbo prevaricated. “Well, Hobbit needs are simple: sunshine and fresh air have been dearly missed these past months. Is there perhaps a room with a balcony? Or even just windows? Also. A kitchen would be nice. We Hobbits are rather prolific eaters, and I should hate to trouble the already busy kitchen staff for food I can just as easily prepare for myself.” Seeing one of the Dwarrow he was less familiar with puffing up ready to protest, Bilbo quickly added, “Besides, what sort of Hobbit would I be to not prepare the food for any guests and family members who join me in my room for a visit. Every Hobbit knows that hospitality is the primary virtue.”  
The assembled Dwarrow nodded to each other, humming approval. Thorin grinned behind his hand and growing beard at the small being who already had the Council dancing to his pipe.  
“I believe that is everything. I don’t need much.” After a pause, Bilbo added, “Well, of course we must construct a Fauntlery.”  
A loaded pause blanketed the room. “A Fauntlery?” Balin repeated. “What is that?”  
Bilbo’s bewildered expression turned to quick understanding. “Of course, there is probably a word in Khuzdul for it. It is a room for growing.” Bilbo nodded to himself, leaning back contentedly.  
“For growing herbs and such?” a young scribe ventured, warily.  
“Well, no. That can be done wherever the windows and balcony are, should some be found. Or I can perhaps set aside some land in Dale should there be nothing suitable in the mountain.” Bilbo wrinkled his brow and stretched his neck forward. “It’s a growing room. It is sacred to Yavanna, the wife of your Maker. Surely Dwarrow follow this tradition as well?” He glanced around as the confusion and, in the case of one particular scribe, tension rose to fill the cavernous room to smothering levels.  
“Mahal’s wife surely favors your people, Your Highness. And we will of course strive to fulfill whatever spiritual requirements you must attend to which will validate a marriage in her eyes.” Balin’s diplomatic skills shined and polished the words as they rolled off his tongue, a fact which both miffed and pleased Bilbo. “However, we still must profess some confusion as to the nature of a Fauntlery; now, you say it is a room. How large must this room be to suit its purpose. Will a room this size be sufficient or would a smaller one suit?”  
Bilbo glanced around the room as Balin spoke, noting the dramatic height of the ceilings, and the grand scale of the room in general. Grand was perhaps the best word to describe the hall. “No, this… I would imagine a Fauntlery in the mountain being much, much cozier. It is a place for family. There ought to be space enough for cots, and some sort of storage for clothing and toys. A fireplace which is shielded in some fashion to protect the little ones, of course. Nothing quite so grand as this chamber. Additionally, it would need to be close, and preferably connected to my room. I can’t imagine not having my faunts close by.”  
“Litte ones?” This time it was Thorin asking the questions. “Do you mean children?”  
“Of course!” Bilbo’s eyes widened as the realization hit home. “Oh! Did you not… Yes, children. Every home in the Shire has a Fauntlery, set aside for the faunts who will live in that home.”  
“Ah, but Bilbo, we will not be… That is, why should we need a Fauntlery? I do not wish to dismiss the wishes of Yavanna, but at the present moment, space is needed more in other places than to leave one standing empty.”  
“Empty?” Bilbo’s reply was shocked, but swiftly bled into irate frustration. “Thorin, dearest, are you telling me you do not want children?” By the last syllable, Bilbo’s voice was chilled as ice and his tongue could have reduced the King Under the Mountain to ribbons.  
Thorin shifted uncomfortably in his chair before replying, “Bilbo. I would love nothing more than to have an entire brood of children with you. And, perhaps once Erebor is more settled we could adopt a child or two in sore need of such love as I know you are capable of giving. But. We… We cannot… You and I won’t be able to have children of our own.”  
“Why ever not? Is there some decree of other which pronounces that a King should not have—“ Bilbo started with a sudden realization. “Is this about Fili and Kili? Because, I want them to remain your heirs, of course. Any children we have would have a shorter lifespan than full-Dwarrow, so why bother dithering about policy when they can practice diplomacy without being in direct line for the throne?”  
Thorin’s face did a complicated grimace. “Bilbo, I… That is not… I don’t…” He sighed dramatically before looking down at the surface of the table before him. “Bilbo, ghivashel. You and I cannot have children because we are both male.”  
“Of course we can. Why would… Wait, are you telling me Dwarrow are like Men? In that only your dams can bear young?”  
The newest scribe gasped and dropped his quill to his scroll, scattering scraps of paper into his lap and onto the floor.  
“Your Highness,” Balin spoke with an unsteady, tremulous voice for the first time since Bilbo had met him. “Do you mean to tell us that male Hobbits, and more to the point, you are capable of bearing young?”  
“Obviously.” Bilbo glanced around at the Dwarrow surrounding him as they all went a bit mad. Ancient and young Dwarrow alike shouting in various pitched of bass voices, a mixture of Weston and Khuzdul, each clamoring to be heard over the other.  
Electing to ignore the surrounding chaos momentarily, Bilbo looked to his betrothed. Thorin was still sat across the table from him, hands clenched firmly to the broad granite table. “Bilbo,” his voice was more a whisper of air than an actual sound.  
Thorin inhaled deeply, closing his eyes before speaking again. “Bilbo. You can bear children? My children? Our…” his voice broke and he released a ragged sob. “Our children," he finished wetly, valiantly.  
Bilbo nodded, poleaxed by the emotion overwhelming his future husband. “Yes, Thorin. That’s sort of the purpose of the Fauntlery; a place to keep our faunts.”  
“So… It’s a nursery then?” Thorin managed, a smile trembling at the corners of his mouth, almost afraid to appear.  
“A what?” Bilbo queried.  
“A place to care for the young, a playroom, and bedchamber to those too young to be on their own for nearly any time at all,” Balin answered, having collected himself. If one ignored the tears falling freely from his eyes. “If it is possible, laddie,” Balin broke formality, “I wish you and our beloved King as many… faunts?... as your Yavanna will grant us.”  
Ori abruptly pulled himself to his feet, “Do you mean we sent a bearer in to face Smaug?!?”


	2. Formal Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you so much for all the love this story has received; you guys are amazing! Your lovely comments are lovely!  
> This is going to be a larger story, with perhaps some additional stories in the same series; that all depends on how I keep breaking apart the further chapters. Do not expect an update every day, the next one may not happen until Sunday unless I am incredibly motivated to devote time to writing before I head to work tomorrow or Saturday.  
> This chapter is a bit more dramatic and serious than the previous one, but more humor and exploitation of cultural differences are to come!

The Company had gone mad.  
This was the only possible reason for the current straits in which Bilbo found himself.  
After the marriage contract debacle from the se’night before, Bilbo had been swarmed with apologies from all manner of dwarrow, even Dain, Thorin’s cousin, and the whole Company had tried to make amends with him. He had, of course, brushed off their ridiculous ideas while trying not to step on any toes. Why should they apologize for things from the quest now that they knew him to be a bearer? He chose to join their company, perhaps not fully aware of the risks, but certainly aware that he could never return to Bag End. His respectability had been in tatters as he raced through the Shire to catch up with the Company near the Green Dragon. It died completely when he hopped on one of their ponies.  
Bilbo had known that joining this quest meant no Hobbit would ever wish to pair with him, so any hypothetical future children had been moot until Thorin’s offer of courtship. Honestly, dwarrow overcomplicated the simplest of matters.  
The jewel-encrusted pommel of a very large gavel struck the surface of the table Bilbo sat behind, jolting him from his thoughts. Dis set the formal gavel to the side and addressed the gathered Dwarrow in a calm voice, “I call to order the trial for remuneration in favor of one Bilbo Baggins, citizen and hero of Erebor, Dragon-Riddler and bearer.” Dis bowed low to her future brother-in-law, and rose to face the gathered Dwarrow once more. She was flanked by two Guild Masters, who represented some level of impartiality since, while Dís was the only one of high enough rank to pass judgement on Dain, Thorin, Fili, and Kili, she could hardly be labelled impartial.  
“Those owing a debt to the bearer are called to step forward and list their offenses, so that some arrangement may be reached with the offended party. Dain, since you are the only member of this gathering not a citizen of Erebor, I will begin with you.” Dain stepped forward, his left leg clunking solidly on the stone floor with each stride. “Do you submit to the judgement of this court in this kingdom, or should you prefer a judgement in your own Hall?”  
Dain bowed ow, first to Dís, then to Bilbo, before replying, “I submit, willingly, to the Hall of Erebor and her judgement for my crimes against her citizen and hero.”  
Bilbo pressed his fingernails into the palms of his hands in order to keep still and silent in his seat. Dís had warned him that to speak during this portion of the ‘trial’ would only make this farce last longer. Better to have it over and done with, lost honor restored in the dwarrow fashion.  
“State your offenses then, Dain Ironfoot, for the judgement of this court.” Dís’ voice was like stone, smooth and sharp and unfeeling. Bilbo trembled involuntarily.  
“Upon meeting His Highness, I saw him, heavily wounded from the battle, now called for the Five Armies who shared it, and turned him away from our healing tents, as I still thought him a traitor and banished from Dwarven society.”  
“Did you know him to be a bearer?”  
“No, Lady Dís, I did not.”  
“Mark that, scribe,” Dís intoned to her assistant, before returning her attention to her cousin. Had you known this, would you still have turned His Highness away from the Dwarven healing tents?”  
Dain’s face showed his surprised anger, though his voice stayed submissive, “He had been banished by the word of the King of Erebor for an act of high treason. I would still have turned him away, but perhaps have escorted him to the Elven tents myself.”  
“Thank you, Lord Dain.” A swift hand gesture inspired her scribe to move his quill rapidly over the parchment before his face. A minute or two later, the scribe stilled his pen, refreshing its ink reservoir, before nodding to the Lady Dís. “Let the sons of the line of Ur step forward. You belong to the Broadbeam clan, and have chosen to become citizens of Erebor. We honored you for your sacrifice in aiding the reclamation of our mountain. Which of you would speak first?”  
The gathered Company exchanged wary looks in silence.  
Bombur pushed himself forward, “I would speak for my cousin, Bifur,” the dwarf stepped forward as his name was called. “While it may fulfill the terms of Dwarven law for Bifur to speak for himself in Khuzdul, he felt it would be better if Bilbo, His Highness, we able to understand what he said.”  
“Well-thought,” Dís replied. “You may speak in your cousin’s stead.  
Guttural Khuzdul resonated through the stone hall, thrumming into Bilbo’s ears through the soles of his bare feet. This was Khuzdul as it was meant to be spoken-wrapped in stone, not bared to the sky.  
Bombur’s voice soon joined Bifur’s, but in clear Westron, “My cousin states that he would like to atone for these grievances to His Highness, Bilbo Baggins, Dragon-Riddler: for garnishing his dinner with the table decorations at that supper in Bag End. He would also like to apologize for neglecting to offer assistance throughout our quest up until the incident with the trolls. During that incident he claims he fought valiantly to defend the company, each member, until Bilbo’s life was threatened.”  
Bifur’s Khuzdul became more agitated and hummed into the stones around them. “Bifur would like to state that he offers his regrets for not ensuring that Bilbo had an escort during the entirety of our stay in Rivendell, though he is uncertain whether this should be listed as a point of contention…” At the shake of Dís’ head, Bifur continued and after a moment, so did Bombur. “Bifur would then like to apologize for not keeping His Highness more secure on the mountain path across the Misty Mountains during the Thunder Battle. And for failing to aid in retrieving His Highness from the mountain edge when he tumbled over the side. As for goblin town and that cursed cave, my cousin simply requests forgiveness on two points: for failing to notice that our burglar had been knocked from the causeway and for not speaking up in offer to return to find Bilbo once the company had escaped the mountain safely.”  
Bilbo bit his tongue, hoping his displeasure at these ‘offenses’ was not glaringly obvious. His Baggins manners wouldn’t stand for it!  
“For the remainder of the journey, his apologies include allowing Bilbo to precede our company into the home of Bern without kenning the shape-shifter’s loyalties or intentions, not sharing more of our rations in the bleak of Mirkwood, relying so heavily on our burglar during the altercation with the spiders infesting the wood and in our subsequent imprisonment by and escape from the Elvenking. As regards Laketown, Bifur apologies only for not recognizing the extent of Bilbo’s exhaustion and illness until his collapse in the Hall of the Master of Laketown, may the rotter-Bifur! My apologies, my lady Dis, your highness Bilbo, that was not meant to be translated nor spoken!” At Bifur’s pronounced grumble and the nod accepting their apologies from first Bilbo and then Dis, Bifur continued his apologies and Bombur his translations.  
“After our ascent of Erebor, my cousin apologizes for allowing Bilbo to enter the dragon’s lair to scout ahead. After the eviction of the calamitous Smaug from Erebor, Bifur should like to apologize for not standing in defense of our burglar upon the battlements when he was named a traitor. He would like to further apologize for not defending the Dragon-Riddler during the Battle of the Five Armies, and for failing to see to his assignment to a proper healer. These are the only things he is aware of doing wrong to Bilbo Baggins in the way of Dwarves. He requests that if he gave any offense in accordance with Hobbit custom that he be held accountable for those as well.” Bombur sighed as Bifur stopped speaking.  
“Very good, My Lord Bifur, and my thanks, My Lord Bombur.” The scribe was furiously scribbling on his parchment, transcribing each point as it was addressed in court. “My Lord Bifur, were you aware of His Highness‘ status as a bearer during this time?” Bifur answered in the negative. “Mark that,” she instructed her scribe once more. “Who is next?”  
Bombur remained before her as Bifur stepped to the side to join Dain. “My apologies are much the same as my cousin, except in relation to the supper in Bag End. There my apologies are not for eating the flowers on the table, but for assisting in the emptying of Master Baggins’ pantry to prepare the supper, without the permission or full knowledge of Master Baggins.”  
“Very good, My Lord Bombur, and were you also unaware of Bilbo’s status as a bearer?”  
“Yes, My Lady. It was revealed to me only this past week.”  
“Mark that, Suri,” Dis said to her scribe in a low voice.  
Kili and Fili were the next to step forward. “My Lady Dís, we come to tell you that all of Bombur’s claims are a weight we all share, but there are others we must each claim.” Fili’s voice was warm, and his gaze steady as he stared at his mother from the center of the room.  
“Yes,” Kili joined, “I apologize for scuffing Bilbo’s mother’s Glory Box.”  
“And I for burdening the Burglar with the full weight of my weapons in his arms upon entrance to his home. While this Dwarven custom was meant to offer respect, it overwhelmed him instead. For this, I apologize.” He bowed lo to Bilbo, who nodded at him return, honestly grateful for that the more recent apologies.  
“And we must offer our apologies for sending Bilbo to steal our ponies back from the trolls, we-,” Kili’s apology was interrupted by Thorin’s cry off surprise.  
“You sent him?”  
Shouts similar in nature rose from each member of the company, ranging from Nori’s judgement on the honor of those who sent thieves to their deaths to Balin’s declaration he had clearly failed them as a tutor if they had honestly supposed sending a lone Hobbit into the camp of three trolls was a good idea.  
“You. Did What?” Dís enunciated slowly.  
Fili and Kili froze, eyes not-quite meeting their mother’s piercing gaze. “We would like to apologize to the Dragon-Riddler for our foolish and thoughtless actions.”  
Dís was practically vibrating with rage, but her voice was controlled as she asked, “Is there anything else for which you would offer apology?” Her sons shook their heads. “And were you aware that His Highness Bilbo is a bearer?”  
“No, Amad.” Her right eyebrow rose superciliously. “No, my lady,” they quickly corrected their form of address.  
“Mark that, Suri.” He scribe dutifully noted the interview onto the parchment before turning to face the princess and offer a nod.  
“Do any of you have any claim of recognizing Bilbo’s bearer status prior to his revealing it during the Marriage Contract proceedings last week?” Firm no’s resounded from the remaining company. ‘Then mark that for all interviews, Suri, that this business may not last forever. I assume many of you, like Bombur have a few details to add to the testimony of Bifur. Let us then proceed with the additions to Bifur’s testimony, withdrawing his flower-eating from your testimonies. We will assume every offense he claimed will also be yours unless you specify the opposite.”  
“Will this suit you?” she asked the remainder of the dwarrow who all nodded their acceptance of these terms. “Then we shall proceed. Bofur, step forward. What offenses have you given to Bilbo?”  
Bofur shuffled to the front, trademark hat twisting in his nervous grip. “I share the burdens of my cousin, although I did insist that we return to goblin town to search for Bilbo, and I began the search for him when he tumbled from the pass. Otherwise, my offenses are my brother’s… I even insulted his mother’s things in his household, unknowingly.”  
“Thank you, Bofur. Gloin son of Groin?”  
“My offences are the same as Bombur’s, milady.”  
“As are mine,” Oin added, new ear trumpet tucked into his ear.  
“Mark their names, Suri. Balin? Son of Fundin?”  
“The only apologies I feel I must add to Bombur’s account are that I had knowledge that Bilbo had the Arkenstone prior to his offering of it to the Elves. I was unaware of his plans for it, but I cautioned him against giving it to Thorin, committing an equally treasonous act, but I never stepped forward to neither defend Master Baggins nor seek reprisal for my advice to our burglar.” Shocked responses echoed from the walls from every dwarf except Dwalin, who only met his brother’s eyes and nodded at him in praise.  
Dwain then stepped forward to share his apologies. “I must also apologize for Bombur’s share of wrongdoings, and for stealing the Hobbit’s personal supper the night we all gathered in Bag End.”  
Ori, Nori, and Dori all claimed the same offenses against Bilbo as Bombur had.  
Thorin stepped forward, the last to do so. “I must in turn offer the same apologies as the dwarrow who have come before me, however I have many to add to the list. So many that I am certain you will share my shock that Bilbo has even accepted my offer of courtship, my lady.”  
“I have that shock already, Thorin called Oakenshield. But speak your turn.”  
Thorin inclined his head to his sister before continuing, “Upon first meeting Master Baggins, I offered him insult. Then, in the time immediately following the troll encounter, I soundly berated Master Baggins for endangering the company and risking the quest. I further berated Master Baggins in Rivendell, spoke against his place in the company after heaving him up from the Cliffside and did not treat him as a full member of our company until after he defended me against Azog.”  
Thorin sighed heavily, “As for my actions upon the battlements… No apology would be strong enough to atone for my treatment one who had not only laid his life on the line for me, but who had returned my ancestral home to me after facing down a dragon. I can only say that I am deeply sorry for my actions and will accept any terms of atonement Master Baggins wishes to set me.”  
“Even should he rescind his acceptance of your courtship offer?” Dís challenged.  
“Even that. All that he asks which I can give to him are his for the asking.”  
“Mark that, Suri. I will want to show it to him later, I’m sure. Now, Master Baggins, you have heard the apologies levied to you?”  
“I have.” Bilbo’s voice was rough from his forced silence.  
“And do you accept these apologies?”  
“In the extent that my companions and friends feel the need to levy them, I do.”  
“And what is your judgment for their atonement?”  
Bilbo sighed. He knew there was some complicated Dwarven thing or other he was meant to recall, but bebother these dwarves he was ready for this whole debacle to be behind them. “As I am the wronged party, and a Hobbit, may I choose to seek atonement in accordance to Hobbit custom?”  
“As you will,” Dís acquiesced.  
“Then, my friends, you have my forgiveness. I would not have demanded these apologies of you, bearer or not. Let us put these grievances behind us and continue as stronger friends.”  
“Just like that?” Bofur blurted.  
Bilbo smiled at his friend before his eyes found those of the bewildered King he was soon to wed. “Just like that.”  
Bilbo nodded at Dís and stepped down from the dais to approach his friends. He embraced each of them in a hug, even going so far as to instigate a gentler rendition of the Dwarven head-butting custom until he found himself standing before Thorin. “I wish to speak to you concerning our betrothal, Thorin.”  
Thorin’s eyes were wide and his swiftly-growing beard did nothing to hide the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. He braced his shoulders and stared dumbly at Bilbo.  
“Do you have any desire to abort our courtship?” Bilbo queried through a furrowed brow.  
“No! I… No, Bilbo, never. You are my One! If you are willing to have me, I would do nothing to leave you.”  
“Good. Because I have decided to keep you. Terrible business looking for another grumpy King Under a Mountain. Much too lazy to go about it. Besides, I rescinded my home to help you recover yours, and then I followed you across the length of Middle Earth because of that dratted song you sang in my parlor. No, Thorin Oakenshield, you won’t be rid of me so easily.”  
Bilbo stretched onto his toes and wrapped his arms around Thorin’s shoulders and pressed his forehead to Thorin’s holding it there for several moments until their peace was interrupted by an irate Dís, “What do you mean you ‘rescinded’ your home, Hobbit?”


	3. Hobbit Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took some time for all the dwarves to calm down enough for Bilbo to fully explain the matter of his home but once he had… the dwarves are not pleased. Yet, Hobbit sense will prevail. Even if Bilbo has to knock some Dwarven skulls about to make it happen.

Bilbo sighed. Somewhere, Gandalf was chuckling at him, he was sure of it. “Dís,” he began slowly as he pulled away from Thorin’s embrace. “Hobbits have… We have different ideas of propriety. My friends,” he addressed the Company around him, “you felt the need to apologize to me because I am a bearer, correct?” Nods and a few murmured ‘of course’s met his pointed ears. “Well, Hobbits would never have expected apologies because one is a bearer or sire. Perhaps, if the one deserving the apology was not yet of age, but regardless of gender. However, there is a… Concept in the Shire which defines the… desirability of a particular Hobbit. We call it respectability, but in truth it comes down to a Hobbit’s devotion to family and to Yavanna, as well as a Hobbit’s ability to provide food, shelter, and such for another.”  
Bilbo shuffled his feet along the smooth stones which shaped the mosaic on the floor beneath him. He’d never quite been able to make out the whole picture, each vein of stone knotted and tangled with the others far too readily for his eyes to make sense of it all.  
“And, well, those things are important to Hobbits. Especially after the Fell Winter.” Cutting off any inquires in regards to that particular point in his life, Bilbo plowed ahead. “So, when I took off on an adventure with a company of dwarrow, I kissed any hope of courtship to a Hobbit goodbye. Dreadfully disrespectful things, adventures. Make one quite late for tea. Hmpf.” Bilbo reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe, a new one as his had broken during the game of chase-the-dragon they’d played months ago and Thorin had seen the loss as the perfect opportunity as an opening gift for his offer of courtship. Bilbo dipped his thumb and forefinger into his dwindling pouch of Old Toby and settled himself into his habit.  
“There is also, the matter of my leaving no word behind me. I was the Baggins of Bag End, you know. My uncle Isembold probably threw a fit.”  
“Is there some… meaning to being the Baggins of Bag End?” Dori asked politely.  
“Is there?” Bilbo spluttered. “Why there are so many responsibilities! I was the Baggins! All of Hobbiton was my borough; I had to distribute the work and the rations in low times. I collected the rent of any of the families who hadn’t lived there long enough to own their homes, and I was the one everyone came to for the sorting and settling of disputes and to witness marriages. Well, not always that last one. That depended on the family trees involved, of course.”  
“But… That means you were a Baron!” Gloin announced loudly.  
“Baron?” Bilbo asked. “What’s that?”  
“Well,” Fili said slowly, “It’s someone who does all of those things you had to do. And you gave that up for our quest?”  
“Well of course.” Bilbo shrugged the strange matter of “Baron”-dom to the swiftly overflowing bookshelf I his mind labeled, Dwarven over complications. “I woke late that morning an only had enough time to lad my rucksack before tearing off across the Shire to catch you lot up before you left.”  
“What was that about an uncle?” Ori asked, looking down at his friend in slight awe. “Isembold?”  
“Isembold, yeah. My mother’s brother. He took over the Thainship once his bother passed away.” Bilbo sighed. “I’ve not got many uncles left on my mother’s side. Isembold, of course, and Isembard. Isengar is the youngest. Both of my aunts are still running around back in the Shire. But, my mother and six of her brothers have already gone to Yavanna’s garden.”  
Gloin was counting on his fingers during this list and erupted with, “Nine sons and three daughters!”  
At Bilbo’s simple, “Well, yes,” Dwarven exclamations grew in volume and incredulity.  
“BACK to the matter at hand,” Balin interrupted the chaos, dos this mean you are the nephew of the Thain of the Shire.” Bilbo nodded. “And does the Thain have any heirs before you?”  
Bilbo thought about that. “My cousins: Fortimbras, then Adalgrim. Then Flambard and Sigismond, not counting their own sons where they have them. Why?”  
Balin sighed wearily. “At least we have not taken you out of a direct line of descent for the Thain, then.”  
“What?” Bilbo coughed as he inhaled from his pipe too sharply. “No, no. It would never have gone to me. Not unless something dreadful were to happen. I’m a Baggins not a Took. My mother was a Took, and while I loved her dearly and am grateful for her adventurous blood in my veins, I as quite content being the Baggins. Of course, now I’ve got something much better.” With a fond glance, he turned his gaze to his betrothed.  
“I am pleased you find Erebor to your liking, Bilbo,” Thorin said. “I will work to make it a home worthy of you.”  
“Oh, tosh, Thorin. I wasn’t talking about Erebor, although it is nice as far as mountains go, I suppose. I was talking about you.” He scoffed at the bewildered expression on Thorin’s face. “Didn’t you hear me explaining about what qualities are desirable to a Hobbit?”  
“Food, and home, and kin, I think was what you spoke of…”  
“Well, yes. But one who is able to provide those well is more desirable than keeping the ones you have. You provided home and protection and food, to the best of your abilities, with the sweat of your labor, for over four thousand Dwarrow for over one hundred years.” Bilbo raked Thorin’s figure up and down slowly. “I’ll take that sort of blacksmith king over being the Baggins any day.”


	4. The Wedding Under the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Dragon-Riddler Baggins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to issue a blanket bit of gratitude to all those who have taken the time to comment; you guys have inspired and motivated devote the time each day to writing and make the effort to update nearly daily. You guys are the best.

The wedding of His Majesty, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain to His Highness, Bilbo Baggins, Burglar and Dragon-Riddler of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield was celebrated with great pomp and circumstance. No expense was spared in the grand ceremony, nor in the grander weeklong feast which followed. Music, alcohol, and food flowed around the Hall of Kings like the River Running that united the three Kingdoms of Erebor, Dale, and the Greenwood.

All of this was of course according to the master plan.

Dis smiled serenely as she surveyed her handiwork, recalling the weeks of work it took to prepare the mountain for this wedding, and her family for this day.

Hours of frustrated negotiation between Bilbo’s no-fuss, no-stress wedding desires and Thorin’s dreams of the most beautiful wedding anyone had ever heard which would make even an elf weep. Of course things went much more smoothly once both males realized Dis had been denied a grand wedding of her own and was going to do whatever she wanted with or without their permission.

~*~~*~~*~

“But I don’t understand, why are we supposed to jump over a bonfire? Isn’t that dangerous?” Thorin’s voice sounded mildly perturbed. “What if we catch on fire?”

“What? No, we won’t catch fire, honestly, Thorin. It’s tradition. Hobbits have been doing this since the dawn of time, to ensure fertility in their married life.”

“Jumping over fire ensures fertility?” Thorin’s expression was a cross between tempted and incredulous. Dis absentmindedly wished for a sketch of that particular facial contrition to be immortalized for her viewing pleasure right up until she went to the Hall of Waiting. If she could find a means of bringing said impossible parchment with her into the afterlife, she certainly would; death was no reason for her family to kiss out on these golden moments.

“Whether or not this rite will actually grant the two of you magical virility and fertility, it seems to be important to Bilbo’s people and as he has agreed to a Dwarven ceremony, wouldn’t it be considerate to integrate as much of his culture as possible into your joining?” Dis prided herself how diplomatic that reprimand sounded. In her head it came out more to the effect of, ‘you sodding imbecile, help me make this wedding perfect. My wedding was held in the ruins of dry mines, their empty veins a threat looming overhead. My boys were born in a home with dirt floors, and they never understood the security a mountain ought to provide. You have not been happy in far too damn long, and this little hobbit makes you smile, was pivotal to our reclamation of Erebor, and for some reason he thinks your husband material. Do. Not. Screw. This. Up! … Also, you will be wearing silver and black opals. Yes, that will complement the Dagon-Riddler’s own wedding apparel: Durin blue and mithril.’

~~*~~*~~*~~

Dis sat serenely beside the seat of honor. Which was empty. Trust a wizard to be late. He had probably become vital to some pig-racing contest or fresh hell/adventure which absolutely could not wait, and when he did finally arrive, he would insist on arriving “precisely when he meant to”. Bah.

Never let a wizard be central to a wedding. Dis had in fact anticipated every possibility and had planned on the first half of the ceremony being performed with only dwarrow present anyhow. Easier to make it seem intentional later, something the wizard would no doubt take credit for.

So it was that Dis invited her people to join their King in this day of celebration. It was she who invited Thorin to stand regally beside her as Fili and Kili escorted Bilbo to them. She was perhaps the only one who heard Thorin’s gasp when he first caught sight of Bilbo, dressed for the first time in the Dwarven style and in the colors of the House of Durin. Dis preened a little bit at that. But only a little.

It was Dis who bound the couple’s hands with seven knots in the seven metals: gold, silver, copper, bronze, mithril, steel, and iron. It was Dis and her sons who in turn recited the wedding prayers Durin himself had offered for his children at their own weddings.

And it was Dis who welcomed the Wizard to stand forward from his place in the doorway to begin the Hobbit sort of proceedings once he finally arrived.

“Bilbo Baggins. I am proud to see the day of your wedding. I never would have imagined you finding a Dwarven one, but then, you are a constant surprise to us all.” Gandalf walked towards the couple and held out a seed—of what plant Dis couldn’t begin to guess—and was soon assaulted with an armful of tearful hobbit.

“The Thain of the Shire sends his apologies for not being able to attend his favorite nephew’s wedding, but offers you a seed from the Party Tree that you might celebrate your union in favor with Yavanna.”

Bilbo gathered the seed in reverent shaking hands and approached the small bed of coals set up for the future fire-jumping. Laying the seed delicately in the center, he turned to face Thorin, and his kin, with a brilliant smile across his.

“The seeds of the Party Tree are precious. They cannot be taken from the tree but must be received of it, as Yavanna wills. When a betrothed couple is granted a seed of the Tree for their wedding, they add it to their bonfire. So that, when they leap over to pray to Yavanna for children in their marriage, that couple is granted a vision of their firstborn.”

“Mahal,” Kili whispered, staring at the small seed, unaffected by the lit embers surrounding it.

“I do believe it is time for you and Thorin to make your leap, don’t you?” Gandalf’s voice was low, but his tone was light and his eyes seemed to shine with unbridled joy.

Dis found her hands firmly squeezing those of her sons, breathless with hope herself. With a shake of her head she turned to her people and addressed them, explaining the nature of the Hobbit custom and the magic Gandalf had added to it (without going into all the details) so that those witnessing the event would understand.

Thorin held his hands out to Bilbo who gripped them firmly in return. Together the two walked to the coals, and began to run, squeezing each other’s hands to ensure they would jump together. And in the moment they leaped over the seed of the Party Tree, the hall waited in hushed silence.

For several moments, nothing happened. All eyes rested on the raised bed of coals. Gandalf leaned back and shifted his staff from one palm to the other to improve his view.

And then a deep green light engulfed the chamber. Gentle laughter and soft footfalls echoed through the room. A small figure tumbled off the bed of coals and collapsed in a pile of cloth. After a moment, the figure pushed up, head bent forward and hands braced on the ground for leverage. Once the child was fully vertical, the Dwarrow on the dais and on the floor of the hall were treated to a vision of dark ringlets, blue eyes, and a wide smile before the child vanished from view.  
Thorin had his arms fully wrapped around his Hobbit husband, and his face pressed into the golden curls. Bilbo’s hands were tucked under Thorin’s coat, wrapped around his waist, face pressed to Thorin’s chest. Dis could clearly see her brother’s shoulders shaking as he wept, but she found no room in her heart to tease him. Tears were running down her cheeks, sliding into the smile hidden behind her beard.

“So, I’ve got ten to one odds on the child being born before Durin’s day; fifty to one odds on the child being a daughter. Place your bets now!” Nori and Bofur were pulling quills and parchment from their tunics and forming the sudden crowd of dwarrow into an orderly line.

Dis laughed wetly, and wasn’t surprised to hear the laughter of her sons joining with hers. The real surprise came when Gandalf called out to Nori, “I’ll take those odds. I say a daughter two months after Durin’s Day next year.”

~*~~*~~*~

The Fauntlery stipulated in the marriage contract had been put into construction even before the ink had dried on the third copy of the document. Thorin had given Bilbo a thorough tour of the Royal Wing, nephews Fili and Kili acting as both chaperones (the necessity of which still bristled under Bilbo’s skin like a stubborn burr) and commenters on the potential viability of each room as a Fauntlery as Thorin led them forward.

A room, set aside as a nursery in Thorin’s youth, was selected for the precious room, and renovations were begun to Bilbo’s specifications with Thorin’s input.

Adjacent to this new Fauntlery, were the rooms which Thorin and Bilbo now shared: a bedchamber, small kitchen, private bathing chamber, and a grand balcony.

Newlywed Bilbo certainly had many plans for that balcony, but his plans were put on hold by the descent of an early winter.  
Not that winter slowed down life within the mountain overmuch: the last of the caravans had arrived the week of the wedding, and the storerooms were stocked to last until the start of summer, in case anything went wrong with the early spring harvest.

Bilbo hummed happily as he left Balin’s formal meeting chambers, having completed his assigned tasks as Consort for the day. He tucked himself quickly back into the small parlor which shared the space with the kitchen in his rooms and pressed his chilled toes closer to the fire. He was hungry, but first, he needed to warm his poor Hobbit toes. Mountains in winter seemed to hide pockets of cold despite the great hearths fully ablaze in every chamber. Bilbo idly stared into the fire, heavy eyelids drooping more as his breathing evened out and he slept.

When Thorin returned to their chambers that night, surprised by his husband’s absence from the Company’s Supper, he was relieved to find the Hobbit curled up in the armchair which had been brought from Bagshot Row to Erebor along with the third convoy of Ereborian dwarves from Ered Luin. With a low chuckle he approached his beloved and gathered the smaller male into his arms. Bilbo snuffled a little in his sleep before curling closer to Thorin as he was carried to their bed and tucked in.

~*~~*~~*~

The next morning, Thorin was kicked awake by a large Hobbitish foot as Bilbo tumbled from the bed. Thorin sat up quickly, hand reaching for the dagger beside his bed, tucked between the mattress and the frame as he called out, “Bilbo?”

“Ohh,” groaned his husband in answer. “My head. Where? Thorin? When did I go to bed?” The bleary-eyed Bilbo huffed out in confusion as he sought to disentangle his feet from the blankets which had followed him over the edge of the bed.

Thorin chuckled and returned his dagger to its sheathe before moving to aid Bilbo in gaining his freedom. “I carried you to bed last night after supper. You must have dozed off in the armchair after your tea yesterday.” The warm affection in his voice was obvious and erased any wounds Bilbo might have suffered to his bruised pride. His bruised bum, on the other hand…

“I didn’t even manage to have tea. I must have been tired to skip tea, dinner, and supper!” Bilbo had of course restored himself to his proper seven meals as soon as the stores allowed him to do so without fear of depleting necessary stock.

Thorin's gamin gin only served as the teaser to his whispered, "Well, I can't imagine what could have possibly worn you out, ghivashel."

"Oh, you," Bilbo's half-hearted protest died quickly in the face of the kiss he planted on his husband's lips.


	5. Mushrooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most varieties of mushrooms are poisonous to the free peoples of Middle Earth (no one has bothered to ask the orcs, goblins, or trolls), but Hobbits are immune. (Food kill a Hobbit? Perish the thought! Hobbits can eat anything.) No one knows this about Hobbits, not even Gandalf.
> 
> Someone has tried to poison the Consort Under the Mountain. Nothing goes as planned.

Bilbo Baggins loved mushrooms.

Now, to be fair, he ate a square seven meals a day laded with a steady diet of fruits, vegetable, meats, grains, herbs, and various oddments in addition to pastries and sweets of discerning variety, but nothing could quite satisfy the only Hobbit Under the Mountain like mushrooms. As a matter of fact, Bilbo had quite frequently—prior to his mad dash to the Lonely Mountain---enjoyed mushrooms recreationally. The effect they had on him as quite delicious itself.

So, when a steaming and deliciously aromatic platter of the fungi was delivered to him, he tucked in without even a question of hesitation.

It wasn’t until he was halfway through the glorious bounty piled high on his trencher that Thorin noticed the contents of his Consort’s plate.

“No.” The words were knocked from Thorin, breathlessly. Bilbo hardly noticed, only reaching over to pat his husband’s knee with a quick dart of his eyes around the room to see if he could spot the reason for Thorin’s displeasure. His other hand brought another laden forkful o his mouth and he groaned in bliss as the mouthful delighted his tongue with its savory and delicate flavors.

“Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice was a ragged cry, still nearly empty of volume. Bilbo had no time to react before he was pulled into a fierce embrace. Bilbo turned his head to gaze up at his husband, mouth chewing his precious meal slowly. Thorin’s eyes were tearing up and he was staring at Bilbo with some emotion Bilbo didn’t recognize.

“Oh, ghivashel…” Thorin whispered. Dwalin, who had been stood behind Thorin’s seat began bellowing orders and the doors of the dining hall were slammed shut behind a phalanx of guards which had orders to… something the kitchen staff? Bilbo’s grasp of Khuzdul had improved by leaps and bounds, but some words were still quite foreign to him.

“Thorin?” he asked quietly, after swallowing his mouthful. “What’s happening?”

Thorin’s voice broke into another sob and he pulled the Hobbit closer to him. “Stay with me, Bilbo. Oin is coming.”

“Oin? Is someone ill? What’s wrong, Thorin? Tell me!” Bilbo was frankly terrified by the quiet nature Thorin had displayed since grabbing him. If Thorin wasn’t yelling about the matter, it must be really dangerous or important. “What is wrong, husband mine?”

Thorin’s eyes pressed tightly shut for one heartbeat before meeting Bilbo’s gaze once more. “You’ve… Oh, beloved, you’ve been poisoned.”

Bilbo’s body jerked at the word. “Poisoned?” His mouth mumbled the word as his brain spun back through the last several minutes. Had there been a different flavor to the mushrooms? Some seasoning he hadn’t recognized? Something meant to disguise the flavor of some inedible substance? “I don’t…” Bilbo shook his head slowly.

Thorin pressed his lips to Bilbo’s forehead, “Oh, ghivashel, you are burning up!” Thorin’s whispered devotions soon sounded in Bilbo’s ear, sweet nothings he was used to hearing in the bedroom: soft words of affection, declarations of love, and newer things, such as prayers to not be abandoned.

Was it really any surprise that Bilbo was getting heated? With each pass of Thorin’s lips over Bilbo’s sensitive ears, each tight embrace in Thorin’s biceps, and each press against the King’s fine form, Bilbo felt more and more like hanging decency and having his way with the King right there, never mind the witnesses. If only he hadn’t been poisoned… But what was the poison?

“Thorin,” he croaked through a voice that was far too thick with want for this sort of talk. He cleared his throat twice. “Thorin, what was the poison?” Sweet cinnamon, if Oin didn’t get here soon Bilbo might just start snogging his husband so that the heat spreading through his lower body might achieve some alleviation. He began shifting unconsciously in Thorin’s lap, no position perfectly comfortable as his desire began to make itself known.

“Oin is here, Bilbo, with a tonic for you. Drink it, and Mahal, please let it be enough.” Bilbo was fairly certain the last bit of that wasn’t directed at him, especially since it had been in Khuzdul, but he was beyond caring. His clothes were far too heavy, too hot, too rough. He pulled away from Oin’s outstretched hand and began pawing at the ascot around his throat.

“Hot, too hot. Thorin, help…Ugh,” Bilbo’s fingers weren’t cooperating. His ascot was knotted way too tightly for breathing. Thorin’s fingers made short work of the offending garment and ripped it away from Bilbo’s throat. “Thank you,” Bilbo moaned, desperately.

“Bilbo, you must drink this. Please, drink this for me.” Bilbo was too distracted by the pitch of Thorin’s rumbling voice to heed his words, his hands already fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat. Thorin’s fingers joined his, and wasn’t that a pleasant thought, and stripped the garment from the Hobbit’s overheated body. Thorin’s hands found Bilbo’s and pressed his fingers to the cup in Oin’s grasp. “Bilbo, I will not lose you to these mushrooms; drink.” Thorin’s hand remained wrapped around Bilbo’s and brought the goblet to Bilbo’s panting mouth.

Bilbo nodded dreamily. Being fed by Thorin like this was quite pleasant in fact. Perhaps, once he’d recovered from whatever this poison was they could—“Mushrooms?” he squeaked, pulling his head away from the tilted goblet. “That’s the poison?”

“We’ve found the traitor, Yer Majesty!” Dwalin’s report from the center of the room distracted the royal couple for a moment, but then Thorin was once again pressing the goblet to Bilbo’s lips.

“Drink, ghivashel, just drink. Please.” Thorin’s words were pleading, desperate, and there was another thing Bilbo didn’t know he’d like to explore. Honestly, it was getting damned uncomfortable in his trousers. He suspected if he looked down he would find quite a wet patch on his favorite doeskin trousers. Bebother and confusticate it all.

“Mushrooms aren’t poisonous,” Bilbo muttered, still angling away from the goblet.

“What?” This was the first time Thorin’s voice had returned even slightly to his normal pitch. Not that this did anything to detriment the need Bilbo felt to just sod the dwarf.

“Mushrooms aren’t poison. Not for Hobbits,” Bilbo panted, now pressing himself towards Thorin, mind empty of any further thoughts of poison and focused entirely on giving the King a necklace of love-bites. His mouth managed to tangle with the bare flesh at the base of Thorin’s neck and impressive beard before Thorin pulled away.

“Mushrooms aren’t poisonous to Hobbits?” Bilbo shook his head frantically stretching his neck out in an attempt to reach Thorin’s neck once more. “Then why are you flushed and warm and jerking… Oh.”

“Mushrooms. Aphrodisiac. Kiss me. Now.” Bilbo hadn’t been able to gather much air between his panted words but he happily sacrificed the little he had claimed for the heavy press of Thorin’s lips to his. “Mmmmh.”

“I’ll take that back, then, if you won’t be needing it,” Oin’s voce startled the pair apart as his hands pried the goblet from theirs.

“And before the two of ye disappear into each other again,” Dwalin’s voice called their attention to his captive, who was staring at Bilbo in trepidation. “What should we do with this scum for his attempted regicide?”

Thorin pressed Bilbo to himself firmly once more, before declaring, “I appoint the members of my company to see to his punishment in my stead. I find the thought of how close I came to burying my One,” only Bilbo was able to feel the trembling shudders which overwhelmed his husband’s body, but everyone present could hear the tremor in his voice. “Leaves me more desirous of seeing to his well-being than to the evisceration of his would-be-assassin. I trust that you will dole out a suitable punishment. Anything further can be dealt with on the morrow.” And with that Thorin stood, arms full of amorous Hobbit, and marched back to his rooms.

“Do not try my patience, Bilbo,” he grunted at the Hobbit now making good on his plans to decorate the king’s collarbones with his mouth. “I nearly lost you today. I may not be gentle.”

“Tosh,” Bilbo panted. “Food, kill a Hobbit? Never happens. But, my king, what made you think you were going to be in charge this time?” With a slight waggle of his eyebrows at his beloved, Bilbo nearly unmanned his favorite dwarf.

A dwarf who hastened his steps to their bedchamber at those words.

~*~~*~~*~

“So,” drawled Dwalin as he circled the restrained dwarf. “Ye felt it was yer sacred duty to harm the Consort of Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, and would ye care to explain to me just what supernatural power gave ye this holy mission?”

The prisoner squeaked and glanced nervously between the loudly menacing Dwalin and the intimidatingly silent Nori. “I… I… It… “

“Speak, traitor, and explain why ye thought to kill the hero of Erebor, the Dragon-Riddler, the only being in all of Arda who managed to hide for a month in the domain of the Elvenking undetected and proceeded to burgle thirteen dwarrow from his dungeons. I’d like to hear yer reasons, and soon. My patience isna verra great.” Dwalin’s brogue grew more pronounced as said patience whittled itself to paper-thinness.

Nori stood from his seat on the table and walked slowly towards Dwalin and whispered, just loud enough to hear. “If he doesn’t tell you in the next five minutes, I’m just going introduce him to one of our deeper mineshafts. We may not know his motives, but at least there will be one less traitor in Erebor.”

Dwalin shrugged and nodded at Nori nonchalantly. “I’ll give ye one last chance to talk and make me think ye may be worth feeding and watering, you cast-off bit of slag.”

“Ipe! I’ll tell you! I just…”

Nori showed his teeth to the poisoner and returned to his seat. Thieves and Burglars stuck together, and this meant eliminating all possible threats from the Hobbit who was to marry their gruff leader, by any means necessary.

~*~~*~~*~

The following day sometime after noon, Bilbo was fidgeting in his seat in Oin's healing quarters, undergoing a thorough examination to ensure that the mushrooms had done no lasting harm. "Now stretch your arms up, that's it."

"But you said they aren't poisonous." Thorin was standing near the doorway, watching the inspection with his arms crossed over his chest. "So why are you having Oin waste his time making sure you're fine?"

"Well, they aren't poisonous to Hobbits, but they are to Dwarves. And I didn't know that. So, I'm not sure, but just in case, I need to make sure nothing is wrong."

"What are you talking about? Beloved, you are not a Dwarrow. So, why would you need to have Oin make certain you are fine?"  
The healer in question just snorted and continued palpating Bilbo's stomach and back.

"Umm... No reason."


End file.
